It's Not Fair
by Sarahbob
Summary: Combeferre had no idea how to share this news with those he loved. Imagining the pain in their hearts and the tears in their eyes made his stomach twist and turn with guilt. He didn't want to be the one to hurt his friends, his family.
1. Chapter 1

_(Hi guys! I've written another one-shot. I lack a bit of inspiration for my other stories, but I'm working on them. Warning, this is not a happy story)_

* * *

He knows the doctor is still talking to him, but Combeferre no longer listens. He doesn't even really try. His ears are ringing too loud anyway and his mouth has turned dry. The doctor's voice seems to come from a great distance, even though he is sitting right in front of him. His eyes are soft and speak sympathy, but Combeferre doesn't feel comforted. He just wants to get out of this office. He wants to leave and go outside, where the sun is shining and the birds are chirping. Where it isn't all black and hopeless as it is inside his mind.

_Nothing more we can do…_

_Make you as comfortable as possible…_

_Four, maybe five or six weeks…_

His doctor's words echo through his head and he closes his eyes. He can't believe this is happening. Not to him. Not after everything. He had really hoped to hear different news.

He felt sick.

Sicker than he had in all the time the doctors were treating him. Sicker than he had when they just told him he was suffering from this illness. He should've brought someone with him. He shouldn't have gone to the doctor's appointment alone. He isn't sure he is going to be able to get himself home now. He feels dizzy and nauseous.

Combeferre sniffs softly and takes his glasses off, wiping them with his sleeve. Now, the doctor is telling him about these social workers who are trained in helping people cope with knowing they are going to die. To help 'ease the transition'. It sounds ridiculous. Combeferre doesn't want help from these people. He doesn't need it. He is almost a doctor himself, he knew his chances of surviving this disease had been slim from the beginning. He knew he would be able to come to term with this end. He would.

Combeferre didn't feel sick because he knew he was going to die. Of course, it hurt him to know that there were so many things he was never going to do now. And of course he'd give anything to hear the doctor tell him a different outcome. But he didn't feel sick because _he_ was going to die. He felt sick, because he had no idea how to share this news with those he loved. He didn't know if he could cope with their grief. Imagining the pain in their hearts and the tears in their eyes made his stomach twist and turn with guilt. He didn't want to be the one to hurt his friends, his family.

When he leaves the doctor's office, his legs are trembling and he has to pause a couple of times to catch his breath. It's almost as if he's living a dream. Nothing seems real. His vision is blurry and the people he passes don't look like real people.

He really hopes he'd just wake up.

The journey back home is the most painful one yet and he sincerely considers to ask the taxi driver to make a turn. But he knows he has to face the facts sometime. Sooner rather than later. He knows he has to tell them. Every single one of them. He can't keep them in the blue about something as important as this. That would hurt them even more.

When he arrives home, Combeferre sinks down on his couch and stares into the distance for a while. He doesn't think about anything. His mind is blank and his eyes see nothing. He's grateful to be home alone. He doesn't think he'd be able to handle it all that well if one of their friends had been waiting there for him. What would he have said? Would he have said anything at all? He probably wouldn't. It'd be too sudden. Too soon.

Combeferre wants to be prepared when he tells them. He wants to know the things he's going to say and he wants to be prepared for the questions and reactions he's going to get. He needs to plan this out for his own peace of mind and he's going to take his time for that. His friends did not know he had a doctor's appointment that morning.

That night, he says nothing to Enjolras about the news he received.

* * *

It takes Combeferre three days to find the courage. He decides to pay all his friends a visit separately. He doesn't want to tell them during a meeting. He needs his private moments with those he cares so much about. He doesn't want to tell them all together. The pressure'd be too high and the aftermath would be too much.

Courfeyrac is the first person he tells. He visits him in the morning. The exuberant smile Courfeyrac gives him when he opens the front door sends daggers to his heart and he almost backs out. But he knows he has to do it now, or he never will. He allows his friend to make him a cup of coffee and smiles when Courfeyrac flops next to him on the couch. Getting the words out is very hard for Combeferre to do. He stammers and he stutters and he squeezes Courfeyracs hand. When he finally tells his him, his friend goes very silent and very pale. Neither of them say anything for a long while. Then Courfeyrac starts trembling and falls against his friend. He cries a lot, and begs Combeferre to let him be there every step of the way.

He stops by Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire next. Joly is the one to open the door and after one look, he pulls Combeferre in a tight embrace. As if he already knows what his friend is going to tell him. Their reactions are very different, though the news shocks them all the same. Joly squeezes his hands a lot, nods as Combeferre tells his story and asks questions about his latest medical results and their options. He also cries. Bossuet doesn't say anything. At all. He stares at the floor and doesn't meet Combeferre's eyes. It's only when Combeferre leaves that Bossuet breaks down. Grantaire grows quiet as well, but it's the angry sort of quiet. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are flashing. When he excuses himself, Combeferre can hear something break. Later that day, he receives a text from his cynical friend. It's just one word. Sorry. But it says everything and Combeferre knows he cares.

Bahorel and Feuilly give Combeferre a very mature response. They ask him questions, offer him words of comfort and wisdom and promise him that they will always be there for him. Feuilly wants to know if there is anything he can do. Neither of them cry when Combeferre tells them the news, but later he hears that Bahorel broke his hand punching the wall shortly after he left.

It's very difficult to tell Jehan the news. He's the youngest of the group and the most emotional one. Combeferre isn't a superstitious person, but he does believe in very intuitive people and Jehan is one of those people. He doesn't have to say a single word to Jehan. The younger boy just takes his hand, leads him towards his couch and embraces him. All he says is that he knows and that he is so sorry. Then the tears start flowing and they don't stop all the while Combeferre is there. Jehan gives him a book of poetry when he leaves, of which he hopes it will bring Combeferre comfort and rest in times of trouble.

The last person Combeferre tells is the hardest one.

* * *

It is already late in the evening when Enjolras finally returns home to their apartment. When Combeferre came back from his visits, he had been exhausted and he was grateful that his roommate wasn't home yet. He'd taken a shower and made himself something to eat. It had been an emotional day and Combeferre wanted nothing more but go to bed and get some sleep. Of course he couldn't. He had made his friends promise not to discuss the matter yet. Not until everyone knew.. But it wasn't fair to keep this news from Enjolras just because he was too tired to tell.

Enjolras was Combeferre's dearest and oldest friend. To themselves and to their friends, they were practically brothers. Brothers in all but blood. They had been through so much together and had seen each other at their worst and their best. Combeferre still remembers the look on his best friend's face when he told him he was diagnosed with this disease. It felt as if his own heart was ripped out of its chest.

Combeferre couldn't predict how Enjolras was going to react to the bad news this time, but he was certain that it would be devastating. And he felt terrible that he was the one who was about to hurt his young friend.

Combeferre smiles at Enjolras when his roommate opens the front door and greets him happily. He asks him how his day was and listens while Enjolras tells him all about it. But the lump in his throat is growing larger and he knows that he has to tell his friend now, or he never will.

"Julien," he interrupts Enjolras quietly when his roommate is about to start another rant about their lack of sponsors for this year's charity event. "I… I have to tell you something."

Enjolras blinks at him, then nods his head and sits down at the dinner table in front of his friend. "Yeah sure, what is it? Are you feeling alright? Do we need to go to the doctor?"

Combeferre bites his lip and feels his heart sink. Then he shakes his head and looks at Enjolras. "No, we do not need to go to a doctor… I've been to the doctor a few days ago."

"Oh…," Enjolras breathes out.

Combeferre can see he is getting nervous too and he wants to get this over with as soon as possible.

"W-What for?" Enjolras asks him quietly.

"My results…" Combeferre answers him. He looks Enjolras straight in the eyes and waits for a response, but there comes none. His friend just stares at him, breathing rapidly, and hands clenched tightly into fists.

Combeferre lets out a deep breath and feels his eyes water. "It's not good, Julien… It's not good at all."

It's silent again. Enjolras is no longer looking at him, but stares hard at the wooden tabletop. After a few long seconds, he swallows audibly and looks back up again. He has gone pale and his bottom lip is trembling.

"What… What do you mean?" Enjolras whispers anxiously, voice quivering and breaking somewhere in the middle.

At that point, Combeferre reaches across the table and takes Enjolras' hand in his own. He holds it tight. "I mean that there is nothing more they can do for me. The treatment didn't work… They're giving me four to six weeks."

And then the words are out. And everything goes to hell.

Everything spirals out of control as Enjolras jumps up from his chair, face like thunder, and starts screaming at him. And the more Combeferre tries to calm him down, the angrier Enjolras gets. He's blaming his older friend, calls him names and kicks his chair across the room.

_How can you do this to me?_

_You promised me you'd be okay!_

_You told me you would get better!_

_How can you leave me like this? _

_This is all your fault!_

_Why didn't you tell me?_

_You promised!_

_I hate you!_

Combeferre just sits there in silence and let the words come over him. Enjolras needed to get this out, he knew that. He also knew that his friend didn't mean any of the things he was saying. The last one hurt though. That really did hurt.

"Enjolras, can you please sit back down and listen to me? Please?" Combeferre tries quietly, but Enjolras twists out of his hold, grabs his bag and storms towards the front door. As it slams shut, Combeferre feels his heart break and for the first time since he received the bad news, he sinks down to the floor and starts crying.

Enjolras doesn't return for three whole days.

When he finally does, it's on a Wednesday night and Combeferre is watching a movie with Courfeyrac and Jehan. He hasn't slept since Enjolras left the apartment and he feels miserable. The guilt is eating him alive and there is nothing there to stop it. Courfeyrac is furious with Enjolras.

That evening the weather is terrible. It's storming and freezing cold. Combeferre sinks a little deeper into the couch and wishes his best friend was somewhere warm and dry. He knows he isn't with any of their friends. They would have let him know.

It's already getting late when the door to his apartment opens and reveals his best friend. The sight is enough to shatter his heart into a million pieces. Enjolras looks awful. He is still wearing the exact same clothes as the ones he had on when he left the apartment three days ago. Except, they're soaking wet now. He is shivering from head to toe, hair plastered against his forehead. His face is dirty, tear tracks clearly visible. His eyes are red and puffy. Enjolras looks downright miserable.

Combeferre gets up from his place on the couch and ignores Courfeyracs loud statements of dissatisfaction. He approaches Enjolras slowly, locking eyes with his best friend. That's when Enjolras' knees give up on him and he crashes towards the ground. Ugly sobs wrack his shivering body. He cries so hard, Combeferre is afraid he's going to make himself sick.

Combeferre closes the distance between them in record time and kneels down next to Enjolras on the floor. He takes him in his arms and holds him tight. He holds him there as long as Enjolras needs. His own shirt gets wet from his best friend's salty tears, but he doesn't care.

Enjolras cries for a very long time that evening and at one point he actually does make himself sick. He doesn't apologize for his words. Not yet. He doesn't say anything that evening, except for one thing.

"It's not fair.."

It's said between hiccups and Combeferre can barely hear it. But he agrees and there is nothing he can say against it, because it is the truth. It is not fair. None of this is fair. Not to Combeferre, not to Enjolras and not to any of their friends.

**The end.**

* * *

_(I'm sorry… I know it's really sad. I don't know where this came from… Please leave me a little review?)_


	2. Chapter 2

_(Hi guys! Thanks for the response on the previous chapter. There have been some developments in my life lately and it inspired me to continue writing this. Mostly to deal with some bad news of a close friend. I hope you'll appreciate it.)_

* * *

_"Enjolras?"_

_"__Enjolras, please, please, open the door? I can't... You can't keep hiding in there... It's not fair..." _

_"__Enjolras, please? You can't do this to me. You're not the only one who lost him! You can't... I can't... I promised him... Please, Enjolras? Please don't make me break my promise..." _

_"__Please... Will you please let me in?" _

Enjolras closed his eyes and rolled over on his stomach. He pulled a cushion of the couch over his head in an attempt to block out Courfeyrac's desperate pleas. He didn't want to hear him; he didn't want to listen. It was too hard and it came too close. It was easier to pretend nothing had changed when he didn't allow himself to acknowledge that there was anything different.

_"__Enjolras! You are not the only one who misses him. He was my friend too! And I promised him... I p-promised him I'd look out for you... Please...? We haven't seen you since the funeral... You have to let us in. Please let me in? God... I can't lose you too..."_

Enjolras squeezed his eyes more tightly closed in an attempt to block out Courfeyracs angry words and clenched his teeth. It was awful to hear his friend break down in sobs. Right in front of his door. If he had a heart to break, it would've easily been broken by now. But his heart was already smashed into a million pieces and there was nothing left to break. He couldn't make himself stand up and open the door. He was too exhausted. Both physically and mentally. He didn't have the strength anymore.

_"__You're doing the exact thing he didn't want you to do, you know! You're shutting yourself off. You promised him you wouldn't do that! He'd be disappointed. Enjolras... Enjolras, please? Please, let me in... Please? We don't even have to talk... just... j-just let me in. I need you." _

Courfeyrac kept up his pleading monologue for another twenty minutes or so. Then he ended it abruptly with a slam against the door and a muffled, frustrated '_God I hate you sometimes, you can be so selfish.'_

Enjolras listened how his friend's footsteps died away. He knew he was hurting Courfeyrac and he also knew how worried everyone was about him. But he couldn't make himself care. He felt hollow and empty. Nothing mattered to him anymore. All he wanted to do was lie here on the couch or in Combeferre's bed and slowly waste away. He had lost his purpose in life and he couldn't care enough to find it again. And he knew that Courfeyrac was right and that he was probably being selfish. He knew that he was doing the opposite of what Combeferre had asked him to do only a few days before he died. But Enjolras was just too tired to even try. He had given up the moment his best friend blew out his last breath.

He didn't even cry anymore. All tears had dried up and it felt as if his body was too weak to produce any new ones. But that didn't matter either. Because why would he want to keep on crying? Crying didn't make things any better. Nothing did. So he might as well lie there and stare into the distance until exhaustion took over and forced him into sleep. And then when he'd wake up, the whole process would start over. It was fine that way. Enjolras couldn't even remember what it was like when he actually had a life to live.

Of course there was this voice inside his head that chastised him for throwing his life away like this. That voice was always angry and judgemental. It snarled at him and mocked and scoffed at him. It yelled at him. It accused him of being an awful friend, of defying his best friend's dying wish. It wondered what Combeferre had done to deserve such disrespect after his death. It told him he was neglecting Courfeyrac and the other Amis, who were grieving just as much as he was. It shouted at him that he was a selfish, arrogant, spoiled brat.

Sometimes that voice would become very strong and at times like that, Enjolras curled away in the corner of the living room and sat there with his eyes closed and nails digging into his skin until he was able to force it out of his head again. Hurting himself always helped.

Sometimes he wondered if the voice belonged to Combeferre. Sometimes it sounded like his father.

However, no matter how powerful the voice could get, it never got the overhand. And the stricter or angrier it would be, the further Enjolras drew into himself. He hid himself away until he was nothing but a mere shell of what he once was. An empty vessel that looked like him but lacked its inner spirit. His soul had left the building.

Enjolras chuckled to himself when he came to that conclusion. He laughed so hard and so loudly, some might even call it maniacal. But it just seemed so funny, so ridiculous. The way he was living his life now in comparison to a month ago. If someone had told him a month ago his live would be the way it was now he would have never believed it. He would have never thought it would come this far.

With a small groan Enjolras lifted himself up from the couch and stumbled his way into Combeferre's bedroom. The bed wasn't made. It hadn't been made since the first night Enjolras returned home alone. He let himself fall down on the soft mattress and buried his head into the pillow. If he tried hard enough, he could still smell Combeferre. And if he tried really hard, he could pretend his friend was still lying next to him. One arm curled around his chest, just like he had done so many times in their lives.

Enjolras wormed his arm underneath his body and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He ignored the dozen missed calls and messages from his friends and dialed the number he knew by heart. He pressed the phone against his ear and smiled when he heard that familiar, gentle voice.

_"__Hello! You've reached Etienne Combeferre. Unfortunately, I can't answer my phone right now. But if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a good day, bye." _

Enjolras waited patiently for the beep. Then he started talking to Combeferre as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed. He told his friend all about his day. He told him about his plans for tomorrow – even though he knew that they were all lies, because he didn't make any plans anymore. He told him about the food that he was going to prepare that evening and he told him that he had finally found the time to watch that Woody Allen movie that Combeferre always loved. That wasn't a lie. Enjolras really did watch a movie. He had turned Netflix on that morning and watched _Midnight in Paris_. It was Combeferre's favorite film and he always encouraged Enjolras to watch it too. Enjolras had lost count of how many times Combeferre had suggested they watch it together.

But they never did.

"I really liked it 'Ferre. You are right, it's a wonderful movie. I guess the message is that you are supposed to make the time you are living in as good as it can be instead of living in the past and dreaming of ages long gone. We can discuss it later if you want. Because even though I do agree with the message, I think one can find a lot of comfort in dreaming of other times. And I also think one can learn a lot from it. Enrich oneself, you know?"

He smiled into the phone. He had been forced to redial Combeferre's number three times already, because the voice-mail kept shutting him off. When his eyes found the clock on the wall, he realized he had been on the phone for nearly an hour. Maybe it was time to hang up. It wasn't like his friend was actually going to listen to these messages.

"Well, anyway... I guess I better hang up now 'Ferre. I don't think you're looking forward to listen to an hour of me rambling about stupid things. I... uh... I guess I'll call you again tomorrow, alright? I miss you... Bye."

The silence in the bedroom was deafening when he hung up the phone. It was an eerie sort of silence and Enjolras didn't like it at all. He suddenly felt as if the walls were closing in on him and he had to get out. Get out of this room right now.

He crawled out of the bed and dragged himself back into the living room. He briefly stopped when he passed the kitchen, wondering if he should make himself something to eat or drink, but moved along when his stomach lurched at the idea of it. He'd eat later. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go. He hadn't shown up at work or school for weeks now. He could eat whenever he wanted. He wasn't bound to breakfast, lunch or dinner hours.

Enjolras curled up on the couch again and reached for the remote. Before he turned on the TV, he briefly looked down at himself. Here he was, sitting in his sweatpants, living off his parents' money. He had been like this for nearly a month now. As soon as Combeferre had told him the bad news, he was spiraling down. And it had only gotten worse when Combeferre passed away a week and a half ago. Somewhere deep down, he loathed what he was turning into. And he knew that Combeferre would be disappointed if he could see him. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? Combeferre wasn't there to see him anymore. He wasn't there to guide him back on the right track and he would never be there again.

Never.

And with that thought, Enjolras pulled the blanket up to his chin and selected _Midnight in Paris_. If he tried hard enough, he could hear Combeferre laugh next to him. If he tried really hard, he could pretend Combeferre was sitting right there on the couch. Enjolras didn't really see much of the film. He was too busy to try and imagine that his friend had never left.

Somewhere between Owen Wilson discovering the car that brought him back to the Parisian 1920s and the end of the film, Enjolras had fallen asleep. He didn't know how long he was out for, but when he woke up it was already dark out. That meant that he had been asleep for at least three hours. Three hours of blissful nothingness. No pain, no numbness, no grief. Enjolras liked being asleep.

Sometimes he wished he could stay asleep forever.

Never wake up again…

But he felt guilty for wishing it and he forced the thought out of his head as soon as it popped up again. He couldn't help it, however, that the more days he spent alone, the harder it was to block the thought out.

There was a soft knock on the door. Yet it still scared Enjolras out of his musings. He jumped a little and sat up so quickly, the room span dangerously for a few seconds. He wondered who was at his door now. Didn't they understand that he didn't want any company? That he didn't want to see anybody? He'd let them know when he was ready to talk to someone.

He listened carefully and felt a shiver run down his back when he realized that the person in front of his door had turned around and slid down to the floor. He could hear the person cry, though it sounded muffled and soft. But there was no other sound and Enjolras was ready to relax back into his couch and watch another movie.

_"E… please open the door?"_

Courfeyrac again. Enjolras felt his throat tighten.

_"__Sorry I got mad… I'm not angry anymore, will you please let me in? Please, E?"_

His voice sounded so soft, barely above a whisper. And so weak, defeated. Enjolras could just picture his friend. Knew what facial expression he'd wear when he was like this. And it hurt his heart, but it didn't make him get up from the couch.

_"Enjolras… You're my best friend… I need you… I'm hurting too, please? Can't we shut ourselves off together? I want to be there with you.. for you… I p-promised him… E?"_

Enjolras tried to swallow past the growing lump in his throat and pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Trying his hardest to block his friend out, while fighting against that angry voice in his head that was shouting at him again.

_"__Please open the door?"_

* * *

_(I think this will have another one or two chapters. Probably from different perspectives. Hope you 'liked' it. Please leave a review? Thanks!)  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_(Hi guys! Thanks for the support on this story! Here's another update. I think there'll be one chapter after this one. Hope you like it!)_

* * *

Grantaire buried his free hand deeper inside his pocket and ducked further away in his scarf. It was freezing cold outside, frozen dew glistening in the watery sun. He trudged on with his head down and glared at his feet, chastising them for turning into ice cubes despite the three layer socks he wore. "_Don't forget your gloves, R_,"Joly had told him a million times, but did he listen? No, of course not. Grantaire knew 'better'... He sighed at his own stupidity and kicked a beer can away. The clear blue sky above him was only a minor comfort. _At least it didn't rain._

Combeferre used to love this weather. Where most people looked forward to spring or summer, Combeferre always flourished when wintertime was coming again. He loved the cold, the snow, the lights and all the little red noses of people passing by. A winter's day such as this one, with the sky so blue and the sun shining, would've been enough to have him smiling all day. "_Stop your moping and come outside with me," _Combeferre had often said to him when he was in a bad mood, "_you can whine all you want as long as you'll come. I promise you'll feel better." _And he always did. But not because he had gone for a walk outside, but because he could talk to Combeferre about anything and the man always had a solution. He always found a way to unburden Grantaire's heart.

Grantaire's arm tightened around the large canvas he was holding. He had it well wrapped, so the cold weather wouldn't do any damage, but he still felt very protective of it. It was part of the last thing Combeferre had asked of him. One final request that Grantaire had been desperate to fulfill. It took him two weeks to finish it. That brought it on a total of three weeks after Combeferre's death. The first week Grantaire had been too depressed to do anything more than drink and cry and drink some more.

He knew he wasn't the only one who had been struggling to cope. Every single one of their friends had hard time accepting that Combeferre was never coming back. It didn't matter that they had had weeks to prepare for that awful moment. It didn't matter that they'd spoken to Combeferre about it. It didn't matter that they had each other to get through. In the end, they all had to do it alone and they all felt like they were failing. Some handled it differently than others. Like Grantaire, Bahorel and Bossuet too chose to drink their sorrow away. Joly and Feuilly buried themselves in their work, Jehan in his poetry. Courfeyrac suffered from severe mood swings, going from devastated to furious and back to devastated again.

And then there was Enjolras, who had known Combeferre the best and the longest. Who had been with his friend every single second of that last night. Who had held his hand when his best friend blew out his last breath.

Combeferre had warned all of them; he made them swear they would look out for their leader in any way they could. He made Courfeyrac promise to take care of Enjolras no matter how hard he'd fight. And they had all tried. They all did their best, despite how incredibly hard it was to do when they were drowning in grief themselves. Especially when at first, Enjolras even refused to open up his door. It took them a week until Courfeyrac decided to break down the door. The brunette then moved in with Enjolras, but slept on the couch, so that Combeferre's bedroom remained intact and unchanged. Jehan wrote him short stories every week that featured him and Combeferre. Joly forced their leader to eat and sleep regularly. And Bahorel agreed to act as punching bag when everything finally got too much and Enjolras needed to lash out physically.

Grantaire had seen Enjolras only three times in the past three weeks. Once at the funeral, once when they all gathered at Enjolras' apartment for dinner and one other time at the Musain when Courfeyrac dragged his friend there against his will. It hadn't gone well, of course. It was too soon.

And each time Grantaire saw Enjolras, his heart broke a little more. His friend looked terrible. He had lost all his fire and he'd gotten incredibly skinny despite Joly's numerous attempts to get Enjolras back to a normal eating schedule. Not long ago, Grantaire overheard a conversation between Bossuet and Joly that Enjolras had started to throw up most of what he ate due to stress and anxiety attacks. Joly had said that if it went on like that for much longer, Enjolras was risking hospital admission. Grantaire shivered at the thought of it. Three weeks after Combeferre died and Enjolras would be in the hospital? That couldn't happen. It wasn't fair.

As he walked along the slippery stones, Grantaire tightened his hold on the canvas. He hoped Combeferre was right and this would help Enjolras move on, but after seeing how his friend was spiralling he doubted something painted by him was going to do anything for the other man. Fixing Enjolras was a job for Courfeyrac or Jehan, maybe even Combeferre's parents, but not for Grantaire. He was a wreck himself so how could anything he did or offered be of any help to Enjolras?

_"I want you to include this in the painting, Grantaire, the real thing, not a copy." _Combeferre had said a couple of weeks ago during one of his final days in the hospital. He'd handed Grantaire a handwritten letter, two photographs and a piece of blue fabric. "_They are things of great value to Enjolras. And if I trust anyone to make something beautiful out of them, it's you."_

Grantaire had frowned at him, had asked him if he was sure about this. Certainly there was someone more suitable for an important job as this one. But Combeferre was persistent and he wanted Grantaire, no one else. In the end, how could Grantaire refuse? After everything that Combeferre had done for him, this was the least he could do. And on top of that, he would've had to have a heart of stone to deny Combeferre his last request.

But now that the time was here and he had finished it, the nerves were trying to get the best of him. Sure, Combeferre would have been proud, but it wasn't Combeferre who he'd give the painting to. It was Enjolras and Enjolras was hardly in a state to be proud of someone. The man had so much other things on his mind, he probably wasn't even in the mood to receive the picture. Maybe he'd even get angry because Grantaire used objects that belonged to Combeferre. What if he'd see it as a dishonor to his friend's memory? What if he'd throw it out the window or smash it to pieces on his table? What if he'd yell and scream and cry until he passed out like he had done in the Musain a week ago?

Grantaire shook his head and opened the door to Enjolras' apartment block. He had to get himself together. He did this for Combeferre, not for himself and maybe not even for Enjolras. Besides, all their friends knew what he had been working on and they all seemed to think it was a good idea. It was Courfeyrac who invited him over today. So maybe he should stop dwelling in his own insecurity and just get it over with. Give Enjolras the painting, say hello and get out again.

_"This letter I wrote to him years ago when I went to college and he had to stay behind. He was devastated that I had to move away, but I told him that no matter what, I'd always be close. I only recently found out he kept the letter. I added a new paragraph last week…" _Grantaire had tried not to read it. He didn't think it was his place to read something so private. Combeferre only gave it to him so that he could process it in a painting. But he couldn't help catching a few sentences nonetheless. "_You've always been my best friend, my soulmate. You and I will always find each other. My heart will always be beating right next to yours. I am so proud to have known you. Kisses forever." _The last one comes back a couple of times in the letter. Kisses forever. For some reason, it brings tears to Grantaire's eyes every time he reads it. _Kisses forever_.

He hoped he did the letter justice, putting it behind Enjolras' head on the wall in the painting. Maybe it was a little bit out of perspective, but the most important thing was that you could read what it said and that it popped out without being too prominently present. The painting itself was something Grantaire was actually quite proud of. It was based on one of the two pictures Combeferre had given him. His friend had asked him to turn one of them – the one where he and Enjolras stood with their arms around each other's shoulders grinning like idiots – into a painting. The other two objects – another picture and a piece of blue fabric – where nicely worked into the painting as well. Combeferre had the picture in his hand, showing it to the viewer with proud eyes. The piece of fabric was neatly placed on Enjolras' red shirt, right on top of his heart, where Combeferre said he wanted it. Grantaire didn't know what it meant, but it was obviously very important to the two best friends.

All in all, the painting had turned into some sort of 3D artwork and Grantaire was a little impressed with himself. He just wished it didn't have such an incredibly sad motivation behind it. And he prayed that Combeferre was right and that Enjolras would appreciate it.

Realizing he had reached the top of the stairs, Grantaire took a moment to prepare himself. His heart was beating like it tried to rip itself out of its chest and a small drop of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Blowing out a deep breath, he took of his knitted hat and knocked on the door. Moment later he was greeted by Courfeyrac.

"Hey, 'Taire," Courfeyrac said softly, he smiled at Grantaire, but to the artist it was clear that today had been a bad day. The younger man looked tired and his smile held anything but joy. "Come on in."

Grantaire hesitated and tried to look past Courfeyrac into the apartment. "Is everything alright? I could come back another time if that's better…"

Courfeyrac shook his head and took Grantaire by the shoulder. After closing the door behind them he led Grantaire into the living room and motioned for him to sit down on the couch. He took the canvas from his hands and carefully placed it next to him. "Now's as good a time as ever, R," Courfeyrac said softly. "It's just been a long day… and a bad night. He's in Combeferre's room, I'll go and get him."

"No, wait Courf… If it's been a bad day, I'd rather come back another time. I don't want to put any pressure on you guys and if he's resting, then maybe it's best to just give him his space.."

He was silenced by gentle squeeze of his shoulder. "Nonsense, R, you've worked hard on this and you've created something amazing. You deserve to give it to him and he deserves to see it. He'll want to see it, I promise you. It's a piece of Combeferre you're giving him, we've talked about this. Stop doubting yourself, man… 'Ferre asked you to this for a reason. And you've done an amazing job. He'd be so proud."

Feeling overwhelmed, Grantaire huffed out a little breath and ducked his head to hide the sudden sting of tears. He appreciated his friend for trying to sooth his feelings, something only Courfeyrac could do. At the mention of Combeferre, Grantaire's heart twisted painfully but swelled at the same time. Would his friend really be proud of him? If that was indeed  
the case, then that was enough for him.

He watched Courfeyrac walk towards the other side of the room, knock silently on Combeferre's bedroom door and then disappear inside. The words spoken behind those walls were too soft for Grantaire to hear, but even if they weren't, he wouldn't try to listen in.

Little more than 10 minutes passed by before the door opened again to reveal both Courfeyrac and Enjolras. When Grantaire's eyes locked on his leader's form, he had to bite his lip to keep from gasping. The man looked horrible, a mere shell of what he used to be. The dark smudges under his eyes were a stark contrast with his pale skin and he moved very slowly as if any sudden movements would bring him out of balance. Joly hadn't been exaggerating when describing Enjolras' physical state. The poor man looked like he could collapse at any moment.

Courfeyrac gently guided his friend towards the couch and pushed him down to sit next to Grantaire. He kept a firm hold on Enjolras' shoulder and even when the blonde was safely seated, he still wouldn't lose his hold.

"Hi," Grantaire breathed quietly. "I, uh… I'm sorry if this is a bad time… I just… I just came to drop something off. Something I've been working on for a while now and… well, uh… Combeferre wanted me to give it to you."

Enjolras watched him with tired eyes, looking almost disinterested. Yet at the mention of Combeferre's name, his eyes focused on the artist and he briefly glanced at the canvas between them.

"What is it?" he whispered in a strangled voice.

"Uh.. It's a painting… Well, sort of a painting, I guess…" Grantaire shrugged and looked away, suddenly feeling very vulnerable under Enjolras' scrutinizing look. He took the wrapped package and handed it to his blonde friend. When he realized how badly his hands were shaking, he hid them away under his legs.

Enjolras stared at the package for a long time, seemingly lost at what to do. He only start unwrapping it when Courfeyrac leaned forward to whisper something in his ear.

The sharp gasp that escaped Enjolras' throat when the painting was finally revealed send shivers down Grantaire's spine. He squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to watch his friend's reaction.

TBC.

* * *

_(Thanks for reading, hope you liked it! Please review :) _


End file.
